


In the Backseat

by DoreyG



Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Frottage, In which they cannot stop bitching even while having sex, M/M, Modern AU, Vehicular Sex, car!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beds are overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Backseat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the vehicular square on my Kink_Bingo card... And I decided to do a modern AU with car!sex and bitching instead of going for any sensible option, yay me!
> 
> This is sort of in the same universe as "Trials, Tribulations and Bitching in Bedrooms" but is obviously set a bit before that and is also kind of NOT.

They’ve never fucked in a bed.

Not that they’ve never had the opportunity, of course, but it’s never felt quite _right_. They got up to making out once, on the crisp white sheets in Richard’s flat about five years ago (just after their wives had died within months of each other), but even _that_ had felt so wrong that he’d muttered an excuse after about ten minutes and scuttled out with his entire face bright red and possibly starting to flake (though he didn’t notice any flaking afterwards, when Richard caught up with him and pressed against him in a quiet corner of the car park).

“You’re thinking too much,” Richard grumbles, breaking their rather awkward kissing in the front to flip them smoothly over into the back.

…And they haven’t done it since then! Haven’t even got _close_ due to mutual and silent agreement. It always ends up being elsewhere: that dark corner of the car park (about three times, to his shame), The stark emptiness of Richard’s kitchen counter (five times, the man is surprisingly finicky about hygiene in such areas), the messily painted stretch of his bedroom wall (seven times, keeping their hands over each others mouths as not to traumatise the children), the cold open of the woods (he’d like to say one misguided time, but it’s actually more times than he can count and _damn_ Richard’s adventurous side down to hell), the _car_ -

Beds are far too soft for what they’re doing.

“You’re still thinking,” Richard grumbles into his neck, straddling him and laying bites wherever his teeth can reach, “it’s getting deeply _infuriating_ by now, my dearest Bolingbroke. One would think that you wanted to put off the inevitable.”

…And always will be.

For this, as much as he may secretly long for it in the dead of night (as much as he may secretly suspect, when he meets Richard unexpectedly at some cross-company gathering and feels an odd and certain tightening in his chest), is _not_ a soft thing. Is, instead, a thing of bones and blood: of two beasts unable to tear themselves away from each other no matter how desperately they loathe.

“No,” he finally grunts, reaching up to grab Richard’s hips (as hard as he can, never gentle), “I don’t. And aren’t I allowed to think?”

Richard makes a dismissive noise, waves his hand while sitting himself up and giving a sudden _grind_ down (as slow as he can, never fair), “not when you think _too much_ , as I’ve already stated. Your head is a strange and incomprehensible place, Bolingbroke, I have no idea why you want to spend so much time there.”

He huffs, somehow manages to tighten his fingers (until the knuckles are showing white against Richard’s overly fussy shirt), “perhaps I like it there.”

“God knows why.”

“It’s my own head!”

“That does not stop it from being a strange and incomprehensible place, or from being a place not to get lost in. Honestly, Bolingbroke, you really should use _logic_ to respond to my-“ There is a pause, a grunt as Richard finds himself on his back (so suddenly, so smoothly, that he’ll bet that the man noticed not a single movement until he tumbled over), “that was unfair.”

“It was perfectly fair,” he counters, starting his own slow grind down, “and I’m perfectly logical.”

Richard tilts his head back, and he’d _bet_ that that throat is trying to hold back a low sort of groan, “you are not.”

He sighs, shifts his position so that a tiny whimper _does_ slip free from those impossible lips, “you cannot accuse me of being illogical just because I don’t follow _your_ peculiar brand of logic, Richard.”

“I can and I will.”

“I do _wish_ that you’d stop acting like a five year old.”

And he really does. Maybe this whole thing would be _easier_ if Richard could actually draw himself up and discuss the many (many, _many_ ) problems with _this_ (whatever _this_ really is – deep down, in between the fucking and fighting and bruises on his neck) like an actual adult with maturity on his side.

…And maybe _this_ would also be easier if he did the same. But he doesn’t really want to think about that, and so keeps grinding down instead.

“ _Ah_ ,” which draws a huff from Richard, a helpless writhe before the man checks himself and sends up an ever so fierce glare (actually fierce, even with his dark red hair falling into his eyes and his glasses all askew), “you’re thinking again.”

Trying not to think, _actually_.

…For some things are too complicated to think about, too tangled. And Richard is one of the most complicated and tangled things that he’s ever met in his life. From the moment they came face to face, ten years old with one of them hiding behind a mother and the other behind a father, he’s been absolutely impossible to figure out – and so the only option has been to move without thinking, drive himself ever deeper into the harsh net because he simply can’t _stop_.

“Am not,” he retorts mildly, instead of saying any of that, and then almost bites through his cheek as Richard gives a casual little roll, “you’re just imagining it.”

Richard’s eyes narrow, flash a little behind his glasses (still almost dropping off his face), “No.”

“You imagine a lot of things,” he sniffs, is unable to stop it from becoming a God’s damned _yelp_ as Richard gives a far less casual roll – their hips fitting together for one glorious, amazing, actually _perfect_ second, “why should this be any- _Richard_.”

“Because I know you well enough to know when you’re thinking,” Richard smirks, having rolled them yet again - _this_ time into the gap between seats so that the only way out is an incredibly undignified drop and scramble (probably with cackles ringing in his ears), “you get this lost look in your eyes, your mouth starts to slant downwards and you get so distracted that a reasonably inventive person can do absolutely _anything_.”

“You _utter_ -“ he starts hotly… Clamps his mouth shut when he sees the expression of delight on Richard’s face, “git.”

“Git?”

“Mm.”

“Nothing more than git?”

“Look,” he says, hopefully in incredibly weary tones, “if you want me to be somebody I’m not-“

“Please.”

“-Than that’s absolutely _fine_. But if you really do desperately want somebody to call you what you are then I suggest you go find somebody else to get tangled up with in the back of your car,” he finishes snappily, glaring up as best he can, “it’d take less time than completely changing my personality.”

…And the look on Richard’s face is oddly open, despite all the harshness.

_Enchantingly_ open, he’d say if he was a bit deeper into this (or if he wasn’t so quietly proud). There are so many things in there: a lick of longing, a touch of desperation, a flicker of desire, the slightest hint of a _plea_ not for him to turn on his heel and saunter away (no matter how many painful, incomprehensible things have passed between them)…

A pity that it doesn’t last for long, “I’ll do that after we’re done here, Bolingbroke, it’d be simply _impolite_ to dismiss you when we’ve got all this way, after all…”

“Git,” he snaps grumpily, and would cross his arms if they weren’t busy propping him up.

“Perhaps I’ll call Ed,” Richard says contemplatively, ignoring the grumpiness as he ignores _most_ things that try to trip him up, “Ed would be willing to fuck me, don’t you think? And willing to call me a bastard when I wanted him to. _and_ he’s rather pretty into the bargain. A perfect arrangement, don’t you think-?”

“ _Git_ ,” he elaborates, and adds in a difficult lift of his hips when that doesn’t seem to have the required effect, “and you’ll never get to him at this rate.”

Richard’s head tips forward, his eyes half closing (making him seem more suited to a porno than the back of a fairly ordinary car in the early spring sunshine), “whatever do you mean?”

“You seem intent on being yourself at me for an undetermined amount of time,” he says waspishly, and finds it just possible to brush Richard’s thighs with the sides of his hands if he wriggles a bit, “by the time you get round to sleeping with me Ed will be dead and buried and possible even decaying into dust.”

Richard looks rather like he has too many retorts lined up for that “…Are you implying that I have no sense of timing?”

“No,” he smiles politely in reply, brushes his hands a little _harder_ , “I’m _saying_ it.”

“A bit rude, dearest Bolingbroke.”

“But true,” he raises his eyebrow, “do you want to sleep with me and then go call Ed or not?”

Richard glares at him for a second…

But the question, thank _God_ , finally gets him moving and suddenly he finds his arms almost _snapping_ under the enthusiastic weight of Richard on top of him – pressing down into him, _thrusting_ against him in a way that instantly brings him to full hardness.

He gasps something under his breath, he’s not quite sure whether it’s a swear word or Richard’s name, surges up into another kiss as hard as he can.

It’s awkward to get his legs up around Richard’s waist in his current position, and… So he doesn’t bother. Simply lifts his thighs as high as he can and tightens them on the man’s sides – sends him gasping back for a second before he surges with renewed enthusiasm, presses him down like he’s never tasted something so wonderful. They kiss for a moment more. Their cocks grinding jerkily together through cloth, no rhythm having been established.

But, luckily for both of them, he’s a man who _likes_ rhythm - and so he’s fully willing to make-up for Richard’s laziness. He braces his heels against the slightly ragged fabric of the seat, keeps his thighs slightly lifted and properly starts to _thrust_ \- setting up a punishing rhythm that has their cocks properly rubbing and their foreheads nearly bumping and Richard _gasping_ with such heat between them.

“Bolingbroke…”

It’s also lucky that he soon catches on and falls easily into the burning sway without a single word more, or he would just _melt_ away here and now and that’d be terribly difficult to explain to the children.

But even with that determination it doesn’t take long for him to come once Richard properly gets the hang of things. It just takes a few perfectly aligned thrusts, the harsh scrape of teeth across skin, a quick and clever hand suddenly reaching between his legs and the hot hiss of, “ _Henry_ ,” in his ear…

“ _Fuck_ , Richard!”

…And he’s coming.

Slumping bonelessly down with his skin still happily buzzing, only stopped from collapsing fully into the gap between the seats by Richard coming right after him – shaking and juddering and somehow impossibly handsome even in the midst of _this_.

“…Are you going to call Ed now?” He still can’t help from asking, as Richard finally opens his eyes again and smiles a faintly blissful smile.

“I’ll think about it,” but Richard only chuckles, and presses a quick bite to his jaw before scrambling off in search of tissues.

…For they never fuck in a bed, no. And this isn’t a soft thing, a gentle thing or a nice thing – this is most _definitely_ a harsh thing of blood and bones and two unhealthy beasts unable to pull themselves away from each other no matter how hard they loathe (try).

But…

He scrambles out of the space between the chairs, starts helping Richard in his search for the tissues.


End file.
